


Past-Due Sutures

by AgentBuzzkill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Procrastination never helps anybody, Sherlock why did you wait until the last minute to do this, boys and their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:49:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentBuzzkill/pseuds/AgentBuzzkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for John to go. Sherlock disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past-Due Sutures

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little semi-angsty drabble I cooked up after a bout of Reichenfeels. Forgive me if it sucks.

__Posted 3 December, 2012 at 09:18:36_ _

Part of me knew this day had to come sooner or later.

It hurts to go, but I know I have to.

Mrs. Hudson was right. What I was doing wasn't healthy. Keeping all of his things in order. Never moving anything a hair out of place. Sitting in that damn chair day after day, waiting for him to come home. Making two cups of tea every day even though only one would ever be consumed.

I suppose I finally accepted he isn't coming home.

I found a new apartment. It's not even in London. I guess when I finally took the suggestion to leave him behind I didn't want to half ass it. It was hard for me to accept it, to pack up his things and mine, to apartment hunt. But it had to be done. I knew that then and I know it more than ever now.

For those of you that still read this I know you're probably wondering if I'll continue updating this blog. To be completely honest? I don't know. But if I do update it will be infrequent and short. 

I need to move on. Now's as good a time as any to start. 

To those of you still reading, it's been fun.

-JW

-x- 

I suppose you've seen it?  
-MH  
Recieved 3-12-12 09:20:16

Of course.  
-SH  
Sent 3-12-12 09:20:58

Will you be responding?  
-MH  
Recieved 3-12-12 09:21:13

I suppose I must.  
-SH  
Sent 3-12-12 09:22:34

Hurry, then. He's waited long enough.  
-MH  
Recieved 3-12-12 09:23:08

-x- 

He should have left a long time ago. But at least he's clearing out now, leaving behind the memory of Sherlock Holmes. Attempting to leave the pain of losing that brilliant, insane man. John knew the pain would never fully leave him. It would always be there, tugging at him, pulling at the edges of the gaping wound loss had left in his side. But now he could stitch himself up, take care of the scars that would remain. He was a doctor after all. Healing should come easy to him.

Steeling himself, John forced himself to look around the apartment. At the bare tables and spotless kitchen and boxes piled upon boxes, all containing memories of the man John Watson loved. 

But it was past the time to let go. Now the time to move on loomed ahead of him, and as calm as the road looked John knew it would be anything but.

For a moment, for the last moment he would do this, John let himself feel. He let himself be angry, and sad, and desperate, in place of the cool numbness he forced himself into normally. He let himself mourn for the last time.

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. Straightening himself, with a small cough to clear his throat, John managed to lift himself out of the chair he sat in and make his way to the door. It was probably Mrs. Hudson, coming to say goodbye.

He opened the door, and was met with a cool, calculating gaze. Those sharp eyes studied him, taking in every detail in seconds. The eyes, those eyes he thought he would never see again, drifted past his shoulder, observing the apartment behind John. Taking stock of the cleanliness, the boxes, the suitcases, and John watched as his mind's projection of Sherlock Holmes drew his own conclusions.

So this was what madness felt like. It was oddly calm, barely any pain. If this was what insanity was, why didn't everyone give into it? Everyone could have their own visions of people they loved and lost. It was really quite nice.

"You don't believe I'm real," were the first words out of Sherlock's mouth, and John actually laughed. His mind was talented, it got the voice perfectly.

"John, you're perfectly sane," Sherlock looks wary, and there's something so wrong about that. John just wants that look to get off his face. "See?" He grips John's wrist, slender, cool fingers grazing across John's skin, and John gives a small yelp, smile immediately falling. But that's impossible. Dreams can't really touch. Dreams can't smell like this, be this vivid, feel this lifelike. But if this isn't a dream then-

"Whoa, whoa," Sherlock's other hand reaches for John's arm, "steady, now. Calm. Just breath, John. Breathe."

His breaths are coming in harried gasps, desperate pants against Sherlock's chest when he pulls John in close, arms wrapping around him. His legs give out from under him, weak, useless things that they are, and Sherlock goes down with him. He looks thoroughly perplexed at John's reaction to his sudden reappearance.

"You-" John forces out, "you __died__ -"

"Not quite."

"How?" He has to know, has to believe it's possible. Because if it's not he won't be able to come back from this. 

Sherlock just smiles and smooths John's hair in a gesture John knows he picked up from him. Because John loved Sherlock's hair, loved running his fingers through the soft curls. It seemed right, that Sherlock would reciprocate when John needed it most.

"It's a long story," he admits with a wry grin.

"Well tell it," John demands, "so I can judge if punching you afterwards is the right decision."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/criticisms are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!


End file.
